came into the young man's mind to go to her and take her in his arms, and carry her away somewhere out of sight of men and sound of their voices and again there came to his eyes those stinging tears. Fault of hers it could not be ; she might have been deceived; and then poor Hugh's lips, unaccustomed to curses, quivered and stopped short as they were about to curse the father whom he never knew. Here was the point at which the tide turned again. Could it be Hugh Ochterlony who had deceived his wife? he whose sword hung in Mary's room, whose very name made a certain music in her voice when she pronounced it, and whom she had trained her children to reverence with that surpassing honour which belongs to the dead alone. Again a storm of rage and bitter indignation swept in his despair and bewilderment over the young man's mind; an accursed scheme, a devilish hateful lie that was how it was; and

sition he had been so proud of: nothing his
-alas, not even his mother, his spotless
mother, the woman whom it had been an
honour and glory to come from and belong
to. When a groan came from the poor boy's
white lips it was that he was thinking of;
Madonna Mary! that was the name they
had called her by- and this was how it
really was. He groaned aloud, and made
an unconscious outcry of his pain when it
came to that. "Oh, my God, if it had only
been ruin, loss of everything-anything in
the world but that!" This was the first
stage of stupefaction and yet of vivid con-
sciousness, before the indignation came. He
sat and looked at it, and realised it, and
took it into his mind, staring at it until
every drop of blood ebbed away from his
face. This was how it was before the anger
came. After a while his countenance and
his mood changed the colour and heat
came rushing back to his cheeks and lips,
and a flood of rage and resentment swept | oh horror! that it should be Will.
over him like a sudden storm. Will! could
it be Will? Liar! coward! traitor! to call
her mother, and to tax her with shame even
had it been true — to frame such a lying,
cursed, devilish accusation against her! Then
it was that Hugh flashed into a fiery, burning
shame to think that he had given credence
to it for one sole moment. He turned his
eyes upon her as it were, and looked into
her face and glowed with a bitter indigna-
tion and fury. His mother's face! only to
think of it and dare to fancy that shame
could ever have been there. And then the
boy wept, in spite of his manhood - wept a
few, hot, stinging tears, that dried up the
moment they fell, half for rage, half for ten-
derness. And, oh my God, was it Will?
Then as his mind roused more and more to
the dread emergency, Hugh got up and
went to the window and gazed out as if that
would help him; and his eye lighted on the
tangled thicket which he had meant to make
into his mother's flower-garden, and upon
the sweep of trees through which he had
planned his new approach, and once more
he groaned aloud. Only this morning so sure
about it all, so confidently and carelessly
happy now with not one clear step before
him to take, with no future, no past that he
could dare look back upon, no name, nor
rights of any kind - if this were true. And
could it be otherwise than true? Could any
imagination frame so monstrous and incon-
ceivable a falsehood; · such a horrible im-
possibility might be fact, but it was beyond
all the bounds of fancy; -and then the
blackness of darkness descended again upon
Hugh's soul. Poor Mary! poor mother! It

now

Through all these changes it was one confused tempest of misery and dismay that was in Hugh's mind. Now and then there would be wild breaks in the clouds they would be whirled over the sky in gusts now settled down into a blackness beyond all reckoning. Lives change from joy to misery often enough in this world; but seldom thus in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. His careless boat had been taking its sweet course over waters rippled with a favourable breeze, and without a moment's interval it was among the breakers; and he knew so little how to manage it, he was so inexperienced to cope with winds and waves. And he had nobody to ask counsel from. He was, as Will had been, separated from his natural adviser, the one friend to whom hitherto he had confided all his difficulties. But Hugh was older than Will, and his mind had come to a higher development, though perhaps he was not so clever as his brother. He had no Uncle Penrose to go to; no living soul would hear from him this terrible tale; he could consult nobody. Not for a hundred Earlstons, not for all the world, would he have discussed with any man in existence his mother's good name.

Yet with that, too, there came another complication into Hugh's mind. Even while he actually thought in his despair of going to his mother, and telling her any tender lie that might occur to him, and carrying her away to Australia or any end of the world where he could work for her, and remove her for ever from shame and pain, a sense of outraged justice and rights assailed was in

CHAPTER XL.

his mind. He was not one of those who all broken and indistinct and effaced, on his can throw down their arms. Earlston was mind? his, and he could not relinquish it and his position as head of the house without a struggle. And the thought of Mr. Penrose stung him. He even tried to heal one of his deeper wounds by persuading himself that Uncle Penrose was at the bottom of it, and that poor Will was but his tool. Poor Will! Poor miserable boy! And if he ever woke and came to himself and knew what he had been doing, how terrible would his position be. Thus Hugh tried to think till, wearied out with thinking, he said to himself that he would put it aside and think no more of it, and attend to his business; which vain imagination the poor boy tried to carry out with hands that shook and brain that refused to obey his guidance. And all this change was made in one little moment. His life came to a climax, and passed through a secret revolution in that one day; and yet he had begun it as if it had been an ordinary day a calm summer morning in the summer of his days.

This was what Hugh said to his mother of Mr. Penrose's letter:- "The letter you forwarded to me from Uncle Penrose was in his usual business strain-good advice and that sort of thing. He does not say much about Will; but he has arrived all safe, and I suppose is enjoying himself-as well he can, there."

And when he had written and despatched that note he sat down to think again. He decided at last that he would not go on with the flower-garden and the other works till he saw; but that he would settle about the Museum without any delay. "If it came to the worst they would not recall the gift," he said to himself, brushing his hand across his eyes. It was his uncle's wish; and it was he, Hugh, and not any other, whom Francis Ochterlony had wished for his heir. Hugh's hand was wet when he took it from his eyes, and his heart was full, and he could have wept like a child. But he was a man, and weeping could do no good; and he had nobody in the world to take his trouble to nobody in the world. Love and pride made a fence round him, and isolated him. He had to make his way out of it as best he could and alone. He made a great cry to God in his trouble; but from nobody in the world could he have either help or hope. And he read the letter over and over, and tried to recollect and to go back into his dim baby-memory of India, and gather out of the thick mists that scene which they said he had been present at. Was there really some kind of vague image of it,

WHILE all this was going on at Earlston, there were other people in whose minds, though the matter was not of importance so overwhelming, pain and excitement and a trembling dread of the consequences had been awakened. Mary, to whom it would be even more momentous than to Hugh, knew nothing of it as yet. She had taken Mr. Penrose's letter into her hand and looked at it, and hesitated, and then had smiled at her boy's new position in the world, and redirected it to him, passing on as it were a living shell just ready to explode without so much as scorching her own delicate fingers. But Mrs. Kirkman felt herself in the position of a woman who had seen the shell fired and had even touched the fatal trigger, and did not know where it had fallen, nor what death and destruction it might have scattered around. She was not like herself for these two or three days. She gave a divided attention to her evangelical efforts, and her mind wandered from the reports of her Bible readers. She seemed to see the great mass of fire and flame striking the ground, and the dead and wounded lying round it in all directions; and it might be that she too was to blame. She bore it as long as she could, trying to persuade herself that she, like Providence, had done it "for the best," and that it might be for Mary's good or Hugh's good, even if it should happen to kill them. This was how she attempted to support and fortify herself; but while she was doing so Wilfrid's steady, matter-of-fact countenance would come before her, and she would perceive by the instinct of guilt, that he would neither hesitate nor spare, but was clothed in the double armour of egotism and ignorance; that he did not know what horrible harm he could do, and yet that he was sensible of his power and would certainly exercise it. She was like the other people involved afraid to ask any one's advice, or betray the share she had taken in the business; even her husband, had she spoken to him about it, would probably have asked what the deuce she had to do interfering? For Colonel Kirkman, though a man of very orthodox views, still was liable in a moment of excitement to forget himself, and give force to his sentiments by a mild oath. Mrs. Kirkman could not bear thus to descend in the opinion of any one, and yet she could not satisfy her conscience about it,

nor be content with what she had done. | haughtiest air of preoccupation, Mrs. KirkShe stood out bravely for a few days, telling man began to come to herself. Here was a herself she had only done her duty; but the perishing sinner before her, to whom advice, composure she attained by this means was and reproof, and admonition, might be all forced and unnatural. And at last she important, and such a favourable moment could bear it no longer; she seemed to have might never come again. The very sense of heard the dreadful report, and then to have being rather faulty in her own person gave seen everything relapse into the most deadly her a certain stimulus to warn the culpable silence; no cry coming out of the distance, creature, whose errors were so different, nor indications if everybody was perishing, and so much more flagrant than hers. And or any one had escaped. If she had but if in doing her duty, she had perhaps done heard one outcry if Hugh, poor fellow, something that might harm one of the famihad come storming to her to know the truth ly, was it not all the more desirable to do of it, or Mary had come with her fresh good to another? Mrs. Kirkman cleared wounds, crying out against her, Mrs. Kirk- her throat, and looked at the culprit. And man could have borne it; but the silence was as she perceived Winnie's look of defiance, more than she could bear. Something with- and absorbed self-occupation, and determined in compelled her to get up out of her quiet opposition to anything that might be adand go forth and ask who had been killed, vanced, a soft sense of superiority and pity even though she.might bring herself within stole into her mind. Poor thing, that did the circle of responsibility thereby. not know the things that belonged to her peace! - was it not a Christian act to bring them before her ere they might be for ever hid from her eyes?

Once more Mrs. Kirkman cleared her throat. She did it with an intention; and Winnie heard, and was roused, and fixed on her one corner of her eye. But she only made a very mild commencement-employing in so important a matter the wisdom of the serpent, conjoined, as it always ought to be, with the sweetness of the dove.

"Mrs. Ochterlony is probably visiting among the poor," said Mrs. Kirkman, but with a sceptical tone in her voice, as if that, at least, was what Mary ought to be doing, though it was doubtful whether she was so well employed.

Probably," said Winnie, curtly; and then there was a pause.

This was why, after she had put up with her anxiety as long as she could, she went out at last by herself in a very disturbed and uneasy state to the Cottage, where all was still peaceful, and no storm had yet darkened the skies. Mary had received Hugh's letter that morning, which he had written in the midst of his first misery, and it had never occurred to her to think anything more about Uncle Penrose after the calm mention her boy made of his letter. She had not heard from Will, it is true, and was vexed by his silence; but yet it was a light vexation. Mrs. Ochterlony, however, was not at home when Mrs. Kirkman arrived; and, if anything could have increased her uneasiness and embarrassment, it would have been to be ushered into the drawing-room, and to find Winnie seated there all by herself. Mrs. Percival rose in resentful grandeur when she saw who the visitor was. Now was Winnie's chance to repay that little demonstration of disapproval which the Colonel's wife had made on her last visit to the Cottage. The two ladies made very stately salutations to each other, and the stranger sat down, and then there was a dead pause. "Let Mrs. Ochterlony know when she comes in," Winnie had said to the maid; and that was all she thought it necessary to say. Even Aunt Agatha was not near to break the violence of the encounter. Mrs. Kirkman sat down" in a very uncomfortable condition, full of genuine anxiety; but it was not to be expected that her natural impulses should entirely yield even to compunetion and fright, and a sense of guilt. When a few minutes of silence had elapsed, and Mary did not appear, and Winnie sat opposite to her, wrapt up and gloomy, in her shawl, and her

"To one who occupies herself so much as she does with her family, there must be much to do for three boys," continued Mrs. Kirkman, still with a certain pathos in her voice. "Ah, if we did but give ourselves as much trouble about our spiritual state!"

She waited for a reply, but Winnie gave no reply. She even gave a slight, scarcely perceptible, shrug to her shoulders, and turned a little aside.

Which is, after all, the only thing that is of any importance," said Mrs. Kirkman. My dear Mrs. Percival, I do trust that you agree with me?"

"I don't see why I should be your dear Mrs. Percival," said Winnie. "I was not aware that we knew each other. I think you must be making a mistake."

"All my fellow creatures are dear to me," said Mrs. Kirkman, "especially when I can hope that their hearts are open to

grace. I can be making no mistake so long as I am addressing a fellow sinner. We have all so much reason to abase ourselves, and repent in dust and ashes. Even when we have been preserved more than others from active sin, we must know that the root of all evil is in our hearts."

Winnie gave another very slight shrug of her shoulders, and turned away, as far as a mingled impulse of defiance and politeness would let her. She would neither be rude nor would she permit her assailant to think that she was running away.

"If I venture to seize this moment, and speak to you more plainly than I would speak to all, oh, my dear Mrs. Percival," cried Mrs. Kirkman, -"my dear fellow sinner! don't think it is because I am insensible to the existence of the same evil tendency in my own heart."

"How dare you! how dare you!" she said, clenching her hands, but Mrs. Kirkman's benevolent purpose was far too lofty and earnest to be put down by any such demonstration of womanish fury.

"If it were to win you to think in time, to withdraw from the evil and seek good, to come while it is called to-day," said the Evangelist, with much steadfastness, "I would not mind even making you angry. "What do you mean by talking to me of I can dare anything in my Master's service evil tendencies?" cried Winnie, flushing-oh, do not refuse the gracious message! high. "I don't want to hear you speak. Oh, do not turn a deaf ear. You may have You may be a sinner if you like, but I forfeited this world, but, oh think of the don't think there is any particular fellow-next: ship between you and me."

66

There is the fellowship of corrupt hearts," said Mrs. Kirkman. "I hope, for your own sake, you will not refuse to listen for a moment. I may never have been tempted in the same way, but I know too well the deceitfulness of the natural heart to take any credit to myself. You have been exposed to many temptations"

"You know nothing about me, that I am aware," cried Winnie, with restrained fury. "I do not know how you can venture to take such a liberty with me."

"Ah, my dear Mrs. Percival, I know a great deal about you," said Mrs. Kirkman. "There is nothing I would not do to make a favourable impression on your mind. If you would but treat me as a friend and let me be of some use to you: I know you must have had many temptations; but we know also that it is never too late to turn away from evil, and that with true repent

ance

99

"I suppose what you want is, to drive me out of the room," said Winnie, looking at her fiercely, with crimson cheeks. "What right have you to lecture me? My sister's friends have a right to visit her, of course, but not to make themselves disagreeable and I don't mean my private affairs to be discussed by Mary's friends. You have nothing to do with me."

"I am not speaking as Mary's friend," said Mrs. Kirkman, with a passing twinge of conscience. "I was speaking only as a fellow sinner. Dear Mrs. Percival, surely

ner

as a Christian and a fellow sin

"Aunt Agatha!" cried Winnie, breathless with rage and shame, "do you mean to let me be insulted in your house?

Poor Aunt Agatha had just come in, and knew nothing about Mrs. Kirkman and her visit. She stood at the door surprised, looking at Winnie's excited face, and at the stranger's authoritative calm. She had been out in the village, with a little basket in her hand, which never went empty, and she also had been dropping words of admonition out of her soft and tender lips.

"We

"Insulted! My dear love, it must be some mistake," said Aunt Agatha. are always very glad to see Mrs. Kirkman, as Mary's friend; but the house is Mrs. Percival's house, being mine," Miss Seaton added, with a little dignified curtsey, thinking the visitor had been uncivil, as on a former occasion. And then there was a pause, and Winnie sat down, fortifying herself by the presence of the mild little woman, who was her protector. It was a strange reversal of positions, but yet that was how it was. The passionate creature had now no other protector but Aunt Agatha, and even while she felt herself assured and strengthened by her presence, it gave her a pang to think it was so. body but Aunt Agatha to stand between her and impertinent intrusion. Nobody to take her part before the world. That was the moment when Winnie's heart melted, if it ever did melt, for one pulsation and no more towards her enemy, her antagonist,

No